A warning. This post could be quite long as I am very pleased to find that I am alive, that I still have a brain and that I am able to think and write about my recent adventures.

The groin. Now I always thought that it was only footballers who had a groin, as in “did me groin”. A euphemism for being kicked in the testicles. But it seems I was wrong. Ordinary humans have them too. But I can report that the groin is actually an area adjacent to the testicular region, a bit more north, and a bit to the side. I know this now because Fay shaved it for me in preparation for my procedure. She did both sides – a kind of Brazilian for men. And it was quite heart warming when I was studying the hairs on the floor that they seemed to be long and dark, no short and curly ones, and no grey ones! And did you know that the groin is the pathway to the heart? As lads we had an intuitive understanding that this was the case, but had heaps of trouble convincing the girls of its veracity.

I’m up for an EP study and an RF ablation procedure. The main risk of course is a stroke, so I’ve been on Warfarin, the rat poison, for the last three weeks, with a blood test every other day to check the levels. An EP study is an electrophysiological study of the cause of my arrhythmia, which has now been diagnosed as atrial flutter. Sparksy is going to bung a catheter up my femoral vein and stimulate the heart to reproduce the problem. Then he will ablate the rogue areas of tissue with radio frequency. Normally it is just a local anaesthetic but I’m going to get a full general. At least it’s the vein and not the artery that they use for angiograms, so hopefully, my chances of a stroke are reduced.

I’m wheeled into the cath lab at 2 pm. There must be 8 to 10 people here, all scrubbed up to look after me. Brett the anaesthetist says I will wake up with a sore throat and maybe a bit of bruising on my wrist. I ask him to look after my brain. He cannulates me in the middle of my left bicep and says he’s going to give me a sedative. It will feel just like a glass of wine. The last thing I remember is asking him: “Is it a good red?”

I wake up being wheeled up to the cardiac ward. 4.30 pm. Two and a half hours. The Missus is pleased it’s all over. My throat is sore and my voice very scratchy from the endo-tracheal tube. And I’ve probably had a transoesophageal echo probe poked down as well. Look that up on Wikipedia! I’m only allowed ice, but it’s a blessed relief. No moving for four hours, gradually perking up. The Missus keeps watching my heart rate monitor and gets panicky when it slowly rises from 66 to over 100. She accosts Sparksy coming out of the lift. He says it is not asymptomatic and don’t look at the monitor. She rings my brother and he too says don’t look at the monitor! The monitor is removed. At 10.30 pm The Missus is kicked out of the hospital, protesting. She wanted to stay all night, but they threatened to charge her for a room. But I’ll be fine. I’ve loaded my iPhone with an eclectic mix of Enya, Dire Straits, Pavarotti and Vivaldi. And I’m searching for the magnetic south pole with Douglas Mawson in Peter Fitzsimons mammoth book about the Antarctic ice men. There’s no point trying to sleep, so I amuse myself trying to count all the sites where I’ve been cannulated or jabbed. Bicep, elbows, forearm, hand, wrist, belly, groin. I’ve got tracks like a heroin addict. And I explore my bed to find out why my backside feels so sticky. I’ve been sitting in a pool of half-dried blood, about two feet in diameter, for over 8 hours. They must have lifted me in this sheet from the operating table in the catheter lab onto the bed. Eventually I drift off for half an hour between 2.45 and 3.15 am! I’m still awake so they ECG me at 4 am. I watch the sun slowly rise on a new day. Isn’t that one of life’s pleasures!

Counting cannulas

Sparksy lobs in at 9 o’clock. It was a successful procedure. He found the rogue electrical circuit and ablated it in three places. It was one of the quickest he’s ever done. I’m fixed up!  See him again in 3-4 months.

There are a lot of people I’d like to thank. The ambos, Jade and Andy, for rescuing me. The Epworth Emergency Department staff for saving my life, Dr Paul Sparks and the catheter lab team for fixing me up, all the nurses in the cardiac ward, The Missus for staying by my side, my kids, brothers, friends and neighbours for all their support, the Bristol crew for their concern, and of course, all horse watchers. My Mother had some famous sayings, including: “Not everyone can be a professor, Geoffrey”. I’ve just about come to terms with that. My grandmother had a couple of good ones too, including: “Count your blessings” and “If you’re healthy, you’re wealthy”. Now that one could be good for a chapter title in the next book: The horse watcher rides again!

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I’m kicking back in the cardiac ward at the Epworth Hospital. My body is a pin cushion and all my blood has been sucked out. Don’t they know that I have a well-developed aversion to needles and blood? Where is the respect? My heart rhythm has just returned to normal and I’m being sent home. I told the electrocardiophysiologist, Dr Sparks, that I was listening to Enya on my iPhone when it stopped fibrillating. He remarked that Enya would be enough to send anyone into a coma!

Pin cushion

This is not the way I planned to spend my spell. But it is probably worth recounting my journey here. I woke up the day after my birthday with a pain in my shoulder. This was nothing unusual. Last year I was gorging on anti-inflammatories and having physiotherapy on my rotator cuff. And every year in winter my shoulder blade gives me grief from a fracture 40 years ago playing rugby football. After a few moans The Missus dispenses some Panadol. I descend to the bunker to play with my horse racing database. It seems very noisy down here. In fact I can’t hear my tinnitus because my heart is beating so loudly in my head. Cripes! I look at my watch for 10 seconds and count – 21. That makes 126 in a minute. Cripes! I stand up. A bit wobbly. I ascend the stairs, slowly. I report to The Missus that although I am at home my heart is off and racing. She pauses for one millisecond and dials 000.

I walk to the ambulance, foolishly perhaps. My heart rate hits 240. Then settles to 120. To the Epworth, the heart hospital, please driver. The ambos are great. Love horses. Emergency is full and we wait some 20 minutes for a spare cubicle. There is great mirth at the removal of my long johns. I’m hooked up to the 12 lead ECG. Suddenly, there is consternation. Alarms and bells start ringing. Someone says “Oh, shit. What is he doing!” People come from everywhere. I’m rushed to Resuscitation 2. The Missus is taken aside to the family room and told that a doctor will be with her shortly. She knows what that means. My heart rate goes over 300. That’s not a heart rate, that’s fibrillation. “We’re going to put you to sleep.” They’re going to paddle me! My eyes feel wet, but I am not weeping. Oxygen is meant to be a colourless, odourless gas, but to me it smells of panic. All I can say is “Get my wife. Get my wife”. My body is twitching, shivering. I’m cold. Very cold. I stay conscious and just as they are about to anaesthetise me my heart rate reverts. Someone covers me with a blanket that has been heated up in an oven. Warmth! Oh, the sweetness of the warmth. I can breathe. I feel no pain. I’m busting for a wee. I’m still here.

Sparksy comes down to Resus 2 and inspects the ECG. I can fix this, he says. That’s what I want to hear.

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It looks like I’ll be a no show. The weather has been violent with 30 mm of rain so the track is sure to be a Heavy 9 or 10. Such a shame since it’s my last day for the season. But the Racing Victoria website lists the track as Slow 6 and the sun is peeping through with no sign of a shower. So I head off with low anticipation and high trepidation. But the times for the first three races aren’t too bad, and so I rate the track on the better side of slow, probably a Dead 5.5. Almost bettable. The drainage for the Caulfield track must be amazing.

In the fourth I cross nearly all of them out. Philda and Johnny Fiasco for cannon bandages, Queen Delight for some other bandage, Johannapine for the cross-over noseband, Beyond Pardon for the pacifiers. Galbraith for madly dumping with the jockey up, Forty Two Below for weaving in the stall. Eight horses and only one left, Alpha Proxima, gently munching on the bit. I back it with zero seconds to go on the tote at my limit of $1.80. The horse falls in by half a nostril, but my bet is savaged and returns only $1.50 for the place. Mr Zelko must still be betting from his tax exile in London.

Reconcentrate

In the next Reconcentrate’s shaggy coat reminded me that it was all over. No more bets. But nice to go out on a winner. I’m off to the spelling paddock now. See you in the spring.

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Not a good day at Flemington. Two jockeys down and two horses put down. Mark Zahra on Sparks Burn in the third and Katelyn Mallyon on Deliver The Dream in the seventh. I feared the worse for Katelyn when they brought out the dreaded green screen and didn’t move her for half an hour, but Greg Miles eventually reported that she had regained consciousness and could speak and move her limbs, which I suppose was encouraging. Here’s hoping for a full recovery from reported facial fractures and a fractured T6 vertebra (the middle of the spine). The two-year-old gelding Absolute Spirit fractured a sesamoid bone and was put down after the first race and the three-year-old gelding Sparks Burn fractured a fetlock and was put down after the third. The Flemington trainer Danny O’Brien was hauled before the stewards for his comments on Twitter about the state of the track – “this is not a good surface” and that “tracks shouldn’t be cored and sliced before meetings”. Katelyn’s fall was probably the result of interference.

All these falls and fractures spoilt my day. I started out well with Eximius in the first but ended up giving it back on Perturbo in the fifth and Glaneuse in the seventh. I was crooked on Ben Melham for taking Perturbo down the wrong side of the dodgy track and Glaneuse got held up by Katelyn’s fall.

And the horses are getting their winter coats – which reminds me that it’s nearly time to head for a spell. But why do some trainers shear their horses in early winter? Both Streaky Fella and Azcar had been to the barbers. I reckon a shaggy coat is an excellent adaptation for a Melbourne winter. I’m going to hang onto my hair for some time yet!

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It’s fine and dry but with a cold westerly strafing the horse watchers. The few of us that are left that is, with stalwarts falling by the wayside. I’m armed with my booklet of free guest passes, race book, biro and drink. I give the guest passes to a deserving looking couple, who shake my hand and are eternally grateful –“we’re seniors from Perth”. My brother rings on the mobile to remind me that it is my Father’s 100th birthday. Born in the year the Titanic went down. He’s been gone some 28 years now, but it still brings me up short. I wish he could have seen what I’ve done with my life.

Little action to report. Some horrid winkers on Alrouz, which match the blue and gold spots on the jockey silks. The horse managed to get third despite them. And a double-handed ring bit hold on Inablitz. The mare was crashing into the vegetation and went out onto the track early with the clerk. She still managed fifth.

Two bets for the day, on two very relaxed horses. The Night’s Hot in the third and Utah Saints in the last. Both finished second. In fact, I was so enamoured of Utah Saints that I went and backed it again. Two out of two for the day. I finish the day with the free drink. Here’s cheers, Dad!

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I’m feeling quite optimistic as a Dead 5 is still quite bettable and the forecast is for fine with showers over the eastern suburbs and Flemington is clearly in the west. So no raincoat or umbrella. But I’m soon regretting it as the cloud descends in a thick fug and starts drizzling so much that Greg Miles can’t even see the two-year-olds in the first until they’ve run 300 meters. It doesn’t let up for the second and by the third, with the track downgraded to a Slow 6, I’m ready to go home. I don’t have permission to go home so I have to stick it out, not betting, being miserable and cold and wet.

Flemington

In retrospect my selections weren’t too bad:

1 Epic Choice 9/10
2 Rose In The Glen 2/11 @ $2.60
3 Almodovar 2/9 @ $1.20
4 Dr Nipandtuck 8/10
5 Toned 8/12
6 Playright 2/12 @ $2.50
7 Chieftain Jack 3/13 @ $1.90
8 Charlie’s Queen 4/10

I wouldn’t have bet on Almodovar so I would have had an outlay of $7.00 for a return of $7.00 if I bet every race. So again, just exercising my money. Maybe I should reconsider betting on a Slow 6. Better to go home having exercised your money than simply going home cold and wet with green mould in the wallet.

I took one photo, just to prove I was there.

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The striking three-year-old Zamorar was being touted as a future champion and sent out at $2.30 favourite in the third. I thought he had a bit of a parrot mouth, but in addition he was showing some terrific overbite with his top lip retracted to show some great teeth. I’m gradually developing a disliking to a display of teeth, which is often an indicator of some dissatisfaction with the bit. And he was showing some great gums and flared nostrils! And also he was grinding on the bit, which has long been one of my no-nos. And he had a suspicious bandage above his hock as well. And did I mention that he was changing stride, with his head up? I was in the process of laying him for the place when I was interrupted by an important conversation with someone about something or another and didn’t get set. The horse managed to grab second. Sometimes it pays not to get set!

It turned out to be one of those days. A winner, Lucky Penny, at $2.00 the place, but then I gave it back with a fourth by Queen’s Fashion. All good exercise for the wallet.

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No excuses today. An Indian summer. A beautiful, balmy 25 degrees, and a dry track. In the first I was presented with a conundrum. Two two-year-olds from the Ellerton-Zahra stable, both parading around the yard in a very relaxed manner, heads down. Which one to back? Pillar of Creation, more fancied at $3.00 the place, or Thunder Rain at $3.80 the place. I always fear that the unfancied one in a dual entry will get up. But in the end the horses decide it for me, with Thunder Rain tossing her head up going out to the track. How I hate “Head up”. Pillar of Creation storms home from last to snatch third.

In the second the $3.80 favourite So Pristine is all over the shop, with the strapper struggling to contain it. I scored ten possible faults, including: tongue tie, exposed teeth, tugging on the strap, bucking, flared nostrils, clacking (striking itself), head up with the jockey up, and sweating behind. I like my mares to be calm so I fired up iBetMate and laid it on Betfair at $1.60 the place. Sam Hyland, the mounting yard reporter on TVN, couldn’t fault it. We are obviously reading different books. So Pristine struggled into fifth place.

In the next, brimming with confidence, I backed a relaxed City Of Song, despite the green winkers. The horse wore them for the first time at her previous start at Moonee Valley and they didn’t impede her barnstorming run home for second. The horse repeats the dose and comes from near last to win going away at $5.20 the place. Three out of three! I put the cue in the rack and spent the rest of the day patting myself on the back. I didn’t even indulge in photography, apart from an art shot of the sun streaming through a horse’s whiskers on a beautiful autumn day in Melbourne. Isn’t racing wonderful?

Melbourne autumn

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Now that I’m paying a little more attention to the bridle and bit I’ve decided that I may as well keep track of blinkers too. I’ve procrastinated about scoring blinkers for a long time mainly because they are in such common use, but I’ll give it a burl for a while. I scored a terrific photo today of that aberrant blinker – the visor – on Festina Lente. The visor is simply a blinker with a peep hole or slot cut in the back of the cup. Blinkers allegedly encourage a horse to go forward by preventing it seeing to the rear and being distracted by other horses. In other words, they are an aid to concentration. The function of the visor then is a little obscure, offering small rearward peeps. And usually you will only see a single visor, either on the near or off side, depending on the horse. My own opinion is that it is a sign of desperation, but I’ll check with a few trainers and report back, before giving it the thumbs down. Maybe I’m missing something.

And another pet hate is the ring bit hold, where the strapper slides his/her hand into the ring bit and then tugs down. I immediately imagine that grand trainer George Hanlon going beserk. But today I saw a double-handed ring bit hold on Second Effort. The strapper was really struggling with the effort to contain the horse. But to make matters worse the horse went out onto the track with the assistance of the clerk and then won! A good day for bad behaviour! A bad day for horse watchers.

Two bets for two losers.  And to make matters even worserer Follonica backed up for the place at $2.90 without me aboard. Now that we have passed the autumn equinox I can feel the chill of winter coming on. Two losing weeks in a row.  I’ll hang in there for six more weeks. Maybe more photography, less punting.

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Now that my eye has been readjusted I’m seeing Irish martingales everywhere. Two in the first race of the day, on Placement and Fine Calibre. And at last, a half decent photo. When they appear so obvious it makes you wonder how I’ve missed them all this time, but then I tend to be looking at the whole animal and other particular bits of gear rather than the reins. And it’s easy to see how easy they are to miss. There are all those hands, belts, bands, rings, straps and buckles. You can try for yourself in my spot the martingale photos!

Only two bets for the day. Follonica because of those fabulous ear muffs and there was a gale force northerly wind blowing. Horses hate the wind whistling in their ears, and I do too. It creates havoc with my tinnitus. So I suppose it was some sort of sympathy bet. But the muffs didn’t help and Follonica finished fourth of six. And I backed a beautiful Amah Rock, for another fourth. Next start it. But a wretched losing day. My first for some time. I put it down to the wind.

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